It’s not often that we go to extremes around here. Oh, once in awhile somebody takes a bungee jump or rides a camel or struggles through an intricate expense account, but on the whole we’re cautious types.
So when I started the year with a sail around the British Virgin Islands and followed that a couple of weeks later with flights to frigid Mackinac Island, I figured I had used up a year’s worth of extremism.
Needless to say, the sailboat cruise might be considered soft duty. Only 20 of us guests were on the good ship Arabella, as we greeted the new year with afternoons lounging on sunny beaches and snorkeling in crystal-clear waters. At night, we came ashore to dine on various islands and, when New Year’s Eve rolled around, we partied at the Bitter End Yacht Club. Revels continued back aboard the boat.
Yes, it was the sort of assignment that causes people to believe a travel-writing job is no job at all. I can only point out that a painful hip kept me from extensive beachcombing. And despite my limp, I managed to weave through the massive boulders that litter the sands of Virgin Gorda just so I could write a good yarn and fulfill my duties.
After the cruise, I explored Tortola, capital of the British Virgins, which meant a few more January days enjoying tropical splendor. Sure, my hip made it somewhat difficult to get around, but the heat helped. And if everything would continue going this way, I looked forward to a very good year.
But then I remembered the next assignment–a late January trip to see what Mackinac Island might be like in the dead of winter.
Mackinac Island is a summer resort flanked by Lakes Michigan and Huron. Our family often went there when I was a kid growing up in Detroit. We rode bikes and took horse-drawn carriages, because, in summer, motor vehicles aren’t allowed on Mackinac. Even the ferry ride from the mainland to island was a big treat.
What would a traveler find there after the Straits of Mackinac freeze and most of the hotels close? My editor just had to know. Still tan from the New Year’s trip, I went out and bought some warm boots, thermal underwear and mittens that convert to fingerless gloves when it’s time to snap photos.
All it took to reach the British Virgins was a flight to Puerto Rico and a quick hop to St. Thomas, where the Arabella crew picked me up.
For Mackinac Island, only about 400 miles distant, I had to fly from Chicago to Detroit on Northwest Airlines, catch a regional flight to Pellston, Mich. and transfer to a small charter plane for the final leg into Mackinac Island’s tiny, snow-swept airport. My last pilot arranged a transfer via horse-drawn carriage for the ride into town.
The taciturn driver allowed that things were pretty slow up there. “Yep.” He offered a blanket, which helped me enjoy the scenery without chilly distraction–woods, fresh white snow everywhere and scattered cottages, most of them boarded up until the spring.
A hotel called the Pontiac Lodge was open, and the Village Inn, downstairs, offered a full menu. I hiked a lot and found the cold tolerable enough when I stayed decently wrapped. Snowmobiles had replaced horses and bikes as transportation, but I managed to explore quite a bit of the island on foot, even climbing to Mackinac’s iconic geological formation, Arch Rock.
I decided Mackinac Island in winter wasn’t such a bad place to visit. As one resident put it, “This is the time of year when you can clean out your hard drive and just relax.”
Several weeks later, my cranky right hip allowed me to do just that. In February, I learned the hip would have to be replaced and that the procedure would entail all sorts of preparations before the surgeon could cut me up in mid-April. Cat scans, physicals, stress tests, that sort of thing.
Post-op, I would have six weeks at home to recuperate and clear out the hard drive. Even a long period of idleness represents extremism in a way. It had been a long time (maybe never before) when I had permission to stay home, read, watch movies and simply rest without a deadline looming on my mind.
Not that I could simply vegetate. A nurse and a physical therapist came by the house regularly to check progress, and I had to exercise. Eventually, around Week 3, I was able to take long walks. And by Week 6, the doctor said I could drive the car and return to work.
Hard drive cleared, I resumed the old non-routine. Nothing extreme for awhile–an automobile tour of Ontario, a pause at Niagara Falls, a peek at some wineries, visits to the cottage communities and beaches of Lake Erie, all very low-key and Canadian.
In August, I was agile enough to serve as a marshal during the Walker Cup matches held at Chicago Golf Club. The job involved a lot of walking over the venerable course, which was established in 1895. The American team of top-flight amateurs defeated the British/Irish team, and I felt I had witnessed a bit of golf history. After all, Jack Nicklaus was a Walker Cup player in his formative years.
Some more trips followed, including a ride from Chicago to Portland, Ore. on the Empire Builder, my first long train trip in the U.S. It made for a relaxing couple of days and nights, watching the scenery of the Great Plains and Columbia River from my window, having dinner in the diner, sleeping in a cozy but comfortable roomette.
I took a week-long cruise on the Columbia (more on that in a later issue) and drove to Mt. St. Helens, where steaming magma indicates the volcanic fireworks may not yet be over.
The Pacific Northwest proved to be a sort of neutral buffer between the extremes of the Caribbean and Michigan’s deep snow. That humid climate calls for what the locals call “layers,” warm layers in the morning, fewer layers in mid-afternoon, slickers and galoshes more often than not. “I don’t know why people live here,” remarked a Midwesterner I met out there.
By hurricane season, the reason was perfectly clear.
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Robert Cross (bcross@tribune.com) wishes he could be in New Orleans, circa 2004.
